Peteetong! It's the home of Larry WACHS, bold leader of unwilling, on the Regular Guys Show, Atlanta's most listened to. Currently heard on Rock 100.5/Atlanta, GA and Rock 105.5/Macon, GA, and one of Atlanta's top Jews…ok...and his cats.

STATS

April 06, 2010

I find it sad that they didn't really care to factor in Buzz Aldrin's age (80) in yesterday's judging on DWTS. They gave him 4s. "I remember sitting at home in London watching you on the Moon," Judge Len Goodman said. "Unfortunately, I can't give marks for bravery."

Then why the hell did they invite him on? Because they really thought an 80 year old man could go hoof to hoof with one of the Pussycat Dolls and her meat puppet? Jesus, Len! Got much colony envy? Now the British want reparations. Where is the end, man?

Big effyou to ABC for mocking this great pioneering patriot. Why not just lure him to the top of a flight of stairs and push him down? Big ratings. "Pushing Old Celebrities Down the Steps." Why not?

Buncha neon assdildos. You'll get old too, fuckers, and I hope your beloved Obama's single payer euthanasia mill gets into high claim denial mode just as you need that ass cancer drug to save your creepy, ungraceful lives.

The good news is that Shannen Doherty couldn't beat Buzz Aldrin in a dancing competition. Ha-ha, fugly. Get your eyes fixed. They're still uneven.

We live in very clear and confusing times. On one hand, we seem to have 2 government agencies for every real or perceived risk or offense known to man. On the other hand, the iPad, a product of free thinking, is selling like government programs!

We live in very clear and confusing times. On one hand, we seem to have 2 government agencies for every real or perceived risk or offense known to man. On the other hand, the iPad, a product of free thinking, is selling like government programs!

Apple seems to have an app for everything, too, but Apple's apps are a googol (sorry, no offense) times more fun. And some are truly FREE! The bad ones are repealed by the obnoxious consumer reviews, and everyone of every color and belief system gets a hack at making it big in the app world if they so choose.

Maybe a lot of people think the iPad IS from the government. There are those morons out there who will defend the wisdom of all government programs by pointing to our roads (which aren't so pleasurable to ride on and hard to use at many points in the day), our schools (a day orphanage for poor and unloved children) and Tang breakfast drink (which I imagine is quite tasty up in space where the only other choice is the toilet bowl for hydration), and of course, the river card--flip it---"well, who do you think invented the internet?"

I know. Thaaaaa government. More accurately, the military, which is an important point since in the days of the DARPAnet, as it was known, the military was separate from most government functions because, unlike most government functions, it was a legitimate function of the government.

Even the military didn't know what to do with it except having it's scientists share info on how to kill people better. It took regular people with specialized knowledge to give us the PC to access this government invented wonder, and only then did it become a thriving bazaar where one can get anything without budging his enlarged prostate.

Here's the problem. The recording industry is run by people, mostly Jewish, who care a lot about money and not as much about recorded music. Don't get me wrong. Jews not only love, but are uniquely gifted in the art of recorded entertainment. Neil Diamond. End of story. Jews simply like money more than music. Which is OK. Yay, money! Yay, Jews!

The problem for these record label people is now no one needs them, so they must resort to desperate measures such as suing people who don't want to do business with them, which makes all Jews look like petty thieves. So, on behalf of all Jews who are rightfully embarrassed by the stereotypical behavior of the record companies, I dedicate this to you.

Why don't you start your own live tour company or something? The recordings are all going to be free very soon because Radiohead and others have just smashed the pricing structure with their hippy-dippy honor system. You can't beat free. No, I won't be spending anything for the new Radiohead album. Why should I? I don't know if the songs are any good yet. I don't even know who Radiohead is. But it's free.

I also hope that more artists will start acting a little more humble now that technology has forced them to actually do physical labor for a living by touring. Like that overbearing longshoreman bore, Bruce Springsteen. He was spouting off on 60 Minutes and the Today Show again about his stale political views and how it's patriotic to be against everything that America does. He makes Bono look like Rihanna.

BILL A RIGHTS, HOLLA!

"This is a song called 'Living In The Future,' but it's really about what's happening now, right now. It's kind of about how the things that we love about America: the cheeseburgers, french fries, the Yankees batting in Boston.....But over the past six years we've had to add to the American picture: rendition, illegal wiretapping, voter suppression, no habeas corpus, the neglect of our great city New Orleans and the people, an attack on the Constitution ....."

Yeah, that's why America has been such a beacon to the world for hundreds of years. The burgers and the fries. Bush has really kept us from enjoying them what with his illegal wiretaps and voter suppression. Who can eat American food in such an atmosphere? I'm turning orange from all the carrots I'm eating while wondering if my phone is tapped.

Hey, Fonzie, get an update already! I guess Bruce's busy schedule working construction and attending meetings at the union hall keeps him from getting a fuller picture of the news.

What happened to rock stars who like to have fun and break things? Bruce is all, "We should give more money to the government and, marry homely girls, and mope around because some black guy didn't get a high-paying job and went to war."

September 14, 2007

Unlike some imitation news jogs out there which pile 50-100 news stories on the unsuspecting reader everyday, the True Original News Jog here at the House of Wachs dot commer, understands that only 2-3 news stories per week are worth paying any attention to. The rest is bullshit and a waste of time.

Some weeks there are no such stories, but this week brings such a harvest that we've had 6 in two days! Roll out the barrel and catch them while you can. In fact, from now on the True Original News Jog title will be retired due to the fact that so many inferior competitors have cheapened the name News Jog.

And now, just in time for Rosh Hashanna and the new fall season, we are pleased to usher in The News Harvest!

So goes the headline which makes it seem like he got a break, when in reality, Belichick got screwed. If I were Eric Mangina, I'd buy Kevlar before entering Massachusetts. There's your low life right there. Half a million dollars for doing something that every team in the NFL and MLB does as routinely as lining the field. That's like a rapper suing another rapper for calling him the dreaded n-word. Can't compete in real life? Just introduce political correctness into the equation.

I like how Belichick sacked up and took it in stride without apology or commentary. That's a warrior, not a politician.

Stealing another team's signals during a game is not close to cheating. It's expected. Everybody does it. Does that make it right? Yes. It does. It's not cheating if everyone does it.

"Oh, but what if everybody decided to rob banks. Would that make it right? Huh?"

Yes. It would. That would indicate that the societal norm has shifted, making it cool to rob banks. But currently, you'll note only a tiny fraction of the population robs banks. Why? Because it's still wrong. There's no way around it.

The hell with the Falcons. They'll never get this concept. Blank is a politician, not a winner. I'm officially adopting the Pats as my favorite team. If there are any forms I need to fill out let me know, but the great thing about rooting for a team is that you can start whenever you like, so it's official to me. Maybe I'll call the Patriots later to let them know as a courtesy. I'm sure they would love to hear the support from a neutral state in the war between the Yanks.

The only real qualification you need is to declare before the 3rd game of the season. After that is bandwagon jumping.

David Hanson has two little Zenos to care for these days. There's his 18-month-old son Zeno, who prattles and smiles as he bounds through his father's cramped office. Then there's the robotic Zeno. It can't speak or walk yet, but has blinking eyes that can track people and a face that captivates with a range of expressions.

At 17 inches tall and 6 pounds, the artificial Zeno is the culmination of five years of work by Hanson and a small group of engineers, designers and programmers at his company, Hanson Robotics. They believe there's an emerging business in the design and sale of lifelike robotic companions, or social robots.

I'm sorry. Did any of you call me? I couldn't hear the phone because the Creepy Alarm is going off in my head.

Shouldn't we be investigating instead of praising the loser who spends his time making mechanical young boys? It's offensive. Besides, the market clearly points to an insatiable demand for mechanical females. Everybody I know wants one.

Rosie O’Donnell used to break her own limbs with either a baseball bat or a wooden hanger when she was a child. This revelation, as well as many about her experiences on "The View" last year, is contained in a new book she’s written due shortly called “Celebrity Detox.”

What a shocker. Nasty fulminating dyke who flogs herself for attention as an adult did same during childhood. Hey Rosie! Bush sucks, but do you think he broke his own bones when he was a kid? I don't see it.

Let me put that headline in better perspective. Ideally, I'd have it read:

Rosie O’Donnell used to break her own limbs with either a baseball bat or a wooden hanger when she was a child, helping her become one of the foremosts experts on American foreign policy and stem cell research.

Rosie forgot to mention the ugly stick, and I think the hanger was used too late in her development to do society any good. Other than that, I hear she's a wonderful husband.

July 30, 2007

Our toaster oven refused to service the bottom half of bread, so we tossed it. At an emergency family meeting, we decided that with two microwaves and an oven already in the home, we had enough fire-power to warm the sun, so we didn't really need a toaster oven anymore.

Besides, we could save a lot of money by not buying into the bourgeois toaster/oven mentality in this pampered gotta-have-it-hot-and-melted-now society. Besides, it would reduce our carbon footprint allowing us to pollute in more fun ways elsewhere, like, how about a little jet-ski racing on Lake Lanier? Maybe grab a few winning lawsuits along the way? Have our cake and eat it, too. Whattya think of that?

And even though times are good at the Wachs household, what with my Ebay auctions for tools confiscated at the airport going on, my wife's "pets or meat" rabbits situation out back bringing in some cash, getting noticed in the newspaper for freeloading off TV's Jimmy Kimmel, and selling expired (but still potent) ibuprofen from a pushcart outside local gyms, it's never a wrong time to do a little fat-trimming in the family budget.

I did my toaster research and found the Proctor-Silex Cool Touch at a nifty 14 bucks on Amazon.

I bought a two-slot. That's what they call it in the toaster business. Two slices of golden carb heaven at a time. Not four. Two, so it can concentrate on quality.

As implied in the name, the guts of the toaster are surrounded by a thick plastic casing which keeps the toaster cool to the touch. And, oh, how I needed that cool-to-the-touch technology! To get the toast out, you have to turn the toaster upside down and shake it.

The toast elevator is very weak, see. It pops up the toast enough so it jumps up over lip in tantalizing fashion, but it doesn't stay high enough, so the toast falls far enough back down the slot where you have no choice but to shake the toast out if you don't catch it in midair when it first pops. It's like the toaster has a bad prostate. I've renamed it "The Kimmer." Anybody want an Eggo waffle? OK, I'll put another one in the Kimmer.

Forget about bagels. The good kind don't fit the PSCT toaster, and as a personal rule, bagels can only be sliced once. Bagel Chips? They taste alright, but I see them more as a bagel company's bag of bloopers. No way they use the best, freshest NY bagels for their dehydrated bagel operation.

Why is it so hard to get a good toaster these days? I've bought more toasters in the past two years than computers, and the toaster is vastly less complex and prone to error. Are they that cheap that no one gives a gosh durn about toaster efficiency these days? I'd be better off just finding a nice-sized stick in the woods and hire an illegal to build a campfire each night in the backyard.

So, it's back to the toaster/oven combo. I foolishly forgot how sweet they can be in my haste to be pennywise.

You want to melt a little swiss on a sandwich, or heat up the leftover ribs from Swallow at the Hollow?** Why fire up that cavernous, coal-fired Italian brick oven you have in your wall? It takes 30 minutes until it's at temperature. What jones has that much time? The toaster/oven doesn't waste your time. It is your friend.

I like to tweak the nose of conventional thinking, and the toaster/oven also affords me the luxury of being able to stick a fork or knife inside it to remove hot toasted morsels without fear of electrocution. Can't do that with a two or four slot. I say a no, no, NO! It's more gratifying than running with scissors successfully. The toaster/oven. It helps re-define behavioral norms. It is your friend.

From now, I'll be a good Jew and buy only quality while still getting the best possible deal, if not for free.

Thank you Hashem, for listening, and making my Michael Vick cards more valuable.

July 23, 2007

On the way to take my daughter to Rock and Roll Camp where she will pick a rebellious, angry song to perform later this week and show me who's boss, we discussed this sign:

A lot of good questions were raised as we were both surprised that a pizza/personal training combo was a viable business. Do they train people just to make personal size pizza, muscles, or both? That's not such a bad idea to do both--crosstrain so to speak--because what pizza place wouldn't want to have a muscular dough tosser? Mmmmm.

YOUNG MAN! There's a place you can go, I said YOUNG MAN!Where they toss salads and dough, I said YOUNG MAN!There I'm sure you will find, many ways...too...eat...some...real fine-TOOT..TOOT...TOOT...TOOT TOOT!G UUUUUU I D Os...it's fun to eat at G UUUUUU I D OHwoes.

Excellent idea, and House of Wachs, Inc. would like to congratulate this Laura fellow for great innovation in the business world. I'm gonna be watching this business and if it takes off, I'll be opening my chain of Mrs. Field's Gyms.

July 07, 2007

We're in the car headed for dinner. My mother's phone plays "From a Distance" by Bette Midler. It represents how she sleeps with my dad, who snores poorly and eats smelly food often.

"I think it's embarrassing to have a ringsong on your phone past age 20, Ma."

"I have a song on MY phone," my wife says in rescue of my mother from my outrageous attack on the way her cell phone rolls.

"Well, that's because you're a retard, honey." I patiently explain. And a kiss ass, but I didn't say that to spare her feelings.

"But I like Bette Midler, Larry"

"OK, but think about this, mother. If you put your favorite song on your cell phone, in this case, "From a Distance," you have to interrupt it's groove to answer the call. Isn't that an incentive NOT to answer your phone in a timely fashion?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Logic. Never mind. Answer the call. It's the second verse already."

It was my mom's friend from the condo, Miriam, who wanted to know where we were headed for dinner this evening. My parents are in all their glory when we show up. Everyone wants to know what they're up to.They get treated like celebrities, mainly due to the fact that my parents are still in their 60s, making them a hot young couple, and they don't purchase oxygen off that truck that roams the zip code and plays the theme from "The Sting." But when we're in town, their status goes up a few more notches. That's because my brother's a doctor, my sister married well, and they think I'm still on the radio because they don't remember so well and I lie about it to save time.

We pass by Ocean City, MD's first ever sex shop, boldly advertising Jenna Jameson rubber parts, DVDs, and anatomically correct mannequins showing off their bedroom fashion sense in front of a backdrop of tinfoil, just like in your bedroom. It's next to the KFC/Taco Bell, and the OLD PRO mini golf center, in the exact strip mall space where I used to play pinball games, and really sticks out amongst all the family shlock that lines Coastal Highway, which, for all it's years has had nothing racier than Big Pecker's Bar and Grill.

15 years ago, some genius tried to get a lap dance club going here. Maryland's liquor laws forbade any sort of nudity with liquor, so the business plan was built on the premise that men, just coming off the beach, would pay top dollar to buy beer from cranky, less attractive women in full bathing attire. My plan would have included arson.

"When did Ocean City get a porno store, folks?"

"Oh, you know who wants to go there? My friend, Miriam. Call her. She'd be thrilled if you took her."

The thought of her pastel peach nails wrapped around an adult novelty....purr.

My mom handed me her Midlerized phone and I called Miriam and asked her out to visit the porno store. Her husband wouldn't take her and she didn't want to go alone. I'm doing a good deed. What would the Boy Scouts do? We always hear about how they help old women across the street, but they never say to where the old ladies are going. Probably to save embarrassment as the odds are strong that Boy Scouts in the past have escorted the elderly into porn shops that stand tantalizingly across the street from the old person's location.

We haven't set a day yet, but I am certain it will be during a heavy storm.

New York — A 17-year-old track star died in April from a rare toxic dose of sports cream, New York's medical examiner said Friday.
Arielle Newman, a cross-country runner at Notre Dame Academy on Staten Island, died after her body absorbed high levels of methyl salicylate, an anti-inflammatory found in sports creams such as Bengay and Icy Hot, the New York City medical examiner said Friday.
The medical examiner's spokeswoman, Ellen Borakove, said the teen used "topical medication to excess." She said it was the first time that her office had reported a death from using a sports cream.

Still, hysterics will call for endless legal tribunals to solve this burgeoning epidemic. Hundreds of morning radio shows will now have to cancel their "Sit in a tub of Absorbine Jr. to win an XBOX" contests, and the price of Icy Hot will surely rise as the legal fees and assorted crisis management costs are passed along to the achy consumer forcing millions of senior citizens to turn to the streets where shady figures are more than happy to addict them with Oxycontin.

Her mother, Alice Newman, said she still couldn't believe her daughter's death was caused by a sports cream.
"I am scrupulous about my children's health," she told the Advance. "I did not think an over-the-counter product could be unsafe."

Um-hmmmm. Somebody's gonna have some sore muscles after laying the foundation for that lawsuit, and don't expect me to lend you any of my sports cremes that I've horded for the coming inquisition. No way. I keep them in a bunker in my backyard with supplies of duct-tape and Sudafed. You can easily take my sports cremes from my sore, tired hands, so I keep them locked tight.

I'd like to address the mother, and I want to select my words carefully and sensitively because she is experiencing grief and greed, either of which is very stressful alone....THE PRODUCT IS SAFE YOU...YOU...STUPID PERSON!!!! ...Forgive me. I am sorry. Wash my mouth out with hexachlorophene-free soap. What I meant to say is that the product is safe when used as directed...dumbass.

This may seem a minor point--in fact, it is a nit, but I feel compelled to pick it. It's creme, not cream. Creme is cream without any dairy origins. For example, Oreos are "creme-filled" because the filling is not made with any cream. But whipping cream is dairy hence the spelling. Right off the bat, the use of "sports cream" in the first sentence indicates the writer of this story is a sloppy half-wit. If you want to get your medical news from sloppy half-wits, well, go right ahead, but not me. And is something that has never happened before "rare?" The correct word choice would be "unprecedented." Rare implies precedent.

The night before her death, Arielle returned from a party and spoke with her mother for hours before going to bed.

What happened at the party? I saw "Grease" a few times and I know that some girls like to get together and eat snacks and apply anti-acne treatments while gossiping about boys. It's not out of the question that there could have been some sports creme passed around at the party. My college buddies used to have Robitussin get togethers quite often. Perhaps a DVD of "Jackass" was being shown influencing the kids to eat some balm as a crazy stunt. Kids these days.

No one seems to be curious what exactly happened at the party. Attack of the sloppy half-wits.

Let me also point out that, whatever the toxicity possiblities that lie within topical sports cremes and gels, this kind of incident could never happen to men. Men have a built in safety valve that naturally curtails the excess use of sports cremes. It is alternately referred to as "the sack," "the brain," "the silk purse," "the tea bag," "the jewel pouch," "and the doodaddangler." Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the venerable scrotum!

All sports creme application stops at the point when creme touches the cream factory, and automatically limits the cavalier attitude toward sports cremes that may have gotten this young lady in harm's way.

Sloppy half-wits with penis envy. Is that who we want running America? At least we have this soothing balm to comfort us this weekend.

April 29, 2007

My wife and daughter are playing Battleship in the bedroom, and I've got my eye on a nice cinnamon bun with cream cheese icing on it (no actual cheeses were hurt for the frosting). I've been pretty good this week at attempting to preserve my reasonably athletic figure, so I'm gonna let loose this evening, before getting up tomorrow and strapping on my new favorite product...

...the Therma-Care heat wrap! God Bless them. I'm going to write a nice letter to them and get some free ones, just like I did with Shower Soothers, but not as nice because I still have another 8 months worth of Shower Soothers left in my closet.

I'm really feeling 46 in the past week, what with the stress of the job hunting, driving long distances, eating tons with no exercise, auditioning on the radio, more driving, and then pitching 3 innings on my men's little league team. It really knocked me out. I was sore until yesterday. My masseuse almost separated her shoulder trying to knock out the knots in my shoulder and neck.

She also revealed to me that she does it with her eyes closed because she can focus on the muscle problem better, which is a nice way of saying that my back and body are too old and gross for her 25 year old senses, and have an ipecac effect on her, so she has to close her eyes and pretend she's massaging the dude on Smallville.

"No, really. There's this blind guy who does massage around here, and some of my clients say he's good because he's blind, and I kind of borrowed the technique."

A blind masseur? I don't know how I'd feel about patronizing this mythical beast. Yeah, he's blind so you could easily gyp him out of payment, but he's still a guy. Even if it moves and he can't see it, it still moved. No one disputes the fact that if a tree falls in a forest and no one hears it....it still fell! Well, if a tree trunk rises and no one can see it, it still rose. But, a blind masseuse... Now that is an innovation I welcome.

For Sunday's ballgame at Chamblee HS at 4:30pm (good seats still available), I will be wearing the Thermacare patches in select places under my uniform so my muscles don't tighten up on me. It's a great plan. I bought about a two weeks supply worth of Thermacares and will apply them before all games on my shoulder, lower back, and elbow for long lasting warmth through all 9 innings. You would think in a 38+ men's league, they would make the games 7 innings like in kid's leagues, but it probably follows too close to the diaper arc of a man's life. When you start appeasing your body with child's portions, it's close to the end. Next season, I'm thinking of wearing adult diapers on the mound so I can drink more rejuvenating Capri Sun juice boxes between innings.

God bless anyone in the pain relief business and anyone that can keep an aging population physically motivated, be they the ICY HOT people, or the neighborhood pill and dope merchant at the corner pizza shop. We need as many able people in this country as we can muster. And you young'uns better start getting married earlier and get to work on your breeding. This country faces huge challenges, and we need more people, period. We're currently outnumbered by jealous maniacs from other lands, all of whom wish to drink our blood in celebration of our conquer.

Our 300,000,000 doesn't seem like such a big number vs. their 2 billion, and probably as many as 40% of our 300,000,000 is actively rooting for the other team. I gotta be honest, I've become as uninterested in the party politics going on than I ever have, but when over half of our Congress votes to quit a war, it's an eye opener. They've just voted for the certain sacrifice of someone you may be standing next to right now, in order to hold office and enrich themselves for a few more years.

Anyone still a Falcon fan? How did you feel when, in 1999, Eugene Robinson was busted for picking up hookers the night before the Super Bowl? I was at that Super Bowl and, amongst the press, most wanted to go home, seeing a Broncos victory as a formality at that point. Everyone from Atlanta felt sick. It was over. That's what this is. It doesn't matter that the President is going to veto it. The damage has been done. The play book has been given to the other team at halftime, and everyone knows what's likely to happen now.

The United States will ultimately not lose this war. After the next attack on our soil, there are quite a few people around who will dust themselves off and make an immediate appointment with the local Islamic center to have a sincere and very personal discussion about what the future holds. Despite the seeming millions of people who vote with their guilt instead of any coherent moral code, I think they are outnumbered by people who truly do not take for granted the value of living in the US and the system that allows it to fix it's many flaws. Oh, and I do believe that the US military is working on some time travel technology that will enable us to spy on the future and stop our enemies. We will win, but this kinda business just makes it longer and bloodier.

The Democrat Party makes it's living off of people who really feel bad about having more happiness and comfort than others and have giant egos that drive them to dream up all sorts of superhuman plans to assuage their guilt, through attempts to control the weather to cover up their vain and wanton hairspray use over the years, or control people's appetites to hide their own cinnamon roll addictions.

"I drove a car today. Tax me before I kill again."

That's why American Idol just can't accept it's fate as a simple entertainment icon and has to go and ruin it with that awful African beg-a-thon last week. As long as the $50 million they raised was not intended to go down the toilet, that's all that matters.

Truth is, only Africans can really help Africans to get out of their messy situation over there. However, if an outside party is truly interested in clearing a path for them, here's a household hint. Guns and bombs do a lot better job of making the world a safer place than all the money and John Lennon-inspired candy wishes and hot-buttered popcorn dreams that that spiky-haired dimwit was singing about on American Idol last week.

Imagine there's no heaven? Dude, what do you think helps keep motherfuckers in line? Imagine how many more young boys would have been porked by priests had there been no heaven. Hey, imagine no one putting on pious TV shows because there is no God to impress. Maybe the song isn't the worst ever after all.

It doesn't really matter what your philosophy or your politics are when you're dead--unless your philosophy is that death is preferable to life on this unfair planet. Still, you are dead, and the birds and trees and catastrophes will continue their party without you. I'll give you that dead people don't feel much pain or guilt, but wouldn't it be a selfless act to move to Mecca or just swallow a bottle of pills and leave the rest of us out of it?

To all the people who think the war was a bad idea and Bush is a craven liar who just wants to make a lot of oil money so he won't have to live the pauper's life of a president anymore, I say, Otay!. Let's stipulate the war is wrong and Bush is a murderer of innocent, humble people and simple farmers. But he's still the coach of the team you are on. We still have to play the game, because the other team is committed. Putting Coach Clinton or Coach Obama in won't change the fact that when you don't show up to play, you will lose. Even the special needs T-Ball leagues operate on this principle.

Anyway, God bless anyone who makes products that keeps an aging population moving. One day, we'll stop sitting there with birth control balloons hanging off our wicks, devising new ways to couple up non-breeders, and get to patching the people filter, AKA, our borderline.

April 25, 2007

Since I lease my cars, I've made a lot of deals and have done a lot of research into car buying over the past decade. Recently, I leased my newest car largely over the phone. Thumbs up to the folks at Jim Ellis Mazda in Cobb for not screwing around and wasting my time with the usual assortment of tricks to entice ignoramuses to buy their vehicles. Selling at or below invoice these days means the dealer has made about $2000 profit on a car instead of $3000.

That's the most prevalent trick to deal with more internet-savvy buyers. After getting the "best price," most people can be counted on to let their guard down in the Finance Room and get all that savings tacked back on in the blink of an eye. I don't begrudge car dealers making as much profit as they can, but it's not incumbent upon me, the consumer, to accept it. Some people hate car-buying because of the haggling. Those are people doomed to drive Saturns the rest of their lives and pay way more than they should after all.

Even when the guy at Jim Ellis sheared away hundreds of dollars of nonsense and ate all sorts of pure profit centers on the car, he was still smiling and as satisfied as I was. It's no mystery why. Through factory holdbacks and incentive bonuses for x number of cars a month, there is plenty of profit for the dealer. So, despite showing a loss of a couple grand to the invoice observer, everyone is happy.

But now I'm mad, because I've stumbled onto a profit center recently that's never disclosed and a surefire extra few hundred in cash for every car leased if my hunch is correct. It's flat out fraudulent, and when I turn in one particular vehicle (not the Mazda) in a few months, there is going to be a battle royale on the lot or in the court. Likely both. I'd call Clark Howard, but I lost his home number when I changed phones and agents. Clark, give me a call, because this is juicy. Then again, never mind. You've got enough fame and credit. It's my time.

Driving 2500 miles as I did all last week during my CBS/ABC audition/meet and greet tour affords a man all sorts of time to observe and think. Drive in a car long enough and you'll find all sorts of new ways to keep yourself from taking a nap on the wrong side of the yellow line. Did you know that thirteen white stripes on a highway equals 1/10th of a mile? Did you know that Kentucky and Tennessee are the only two states with Krystal AND White Castle? Yep. It's all true.

It's why I like having my GPS Nav system on in the car even when I know the way. It kills some of the pain of time on the road by constantly updating you on how far you have to go and how much time it'll take. It's fun to watch yourself drive, and it beats drinking. In South Carolina last Sunday morning, at the tail end of the trip, I had run out of things to think about. After hearing "Wasted" by Carrie Underwood and "Glamorous" by Fergie....

"Daddy, why does she spell out the word glamorous in the song?"

"Because her fans are stupid...and it makes it less of a ripoff of Sheila E."

"How do they know she's spelling it correctly?"

"They trust her with the groove, and so, the spelling."

....for the 9th and 10th times respectively, off went the radio, and I stared slack-jawed at the GPS counting down the miles until I could unpack and listen to all the problems at home I missed in the past week.

I noticed that a mile marked on the GPS didn't match my odometer's mile. Not even close. Checked it every mile for the next 20. Same results. For every mile driven, my odometer accuses me of driving 1.07 miles. That may not seem like a big deal, but let's multiply 7% by the 44,000 miles I have on my car, and you'll see that I have been charged with driving more than 3000 miles than I actually have. Now let's take that number to the car dealership where I'm charged 10 cents a mile for every mile over my limit. At lease end, I could owe at least another $300 if my driving patterns hold.

There are ways to avoid this fee such as selling the car outright to Carmax and not paying the mileage fee. They pay the highest prices of anyone for your used car, I've found, but still, they know what the residual value is and how to use the odometer against you to justify a payout under the residual as happened to me a month ago. I saved $500 dollars by doing so, but it's like justifying ass rape by saying that only the tip went in. Then they turn around and sell the car for as much as $7000 profit.

I could've sold the car privately, but my wife doesn't want strange people coming to the house. Is that worth not making $3000 on the car? No, but arguing about it is not worth losing handjob privileges for 6 months.

And of course, by taking delivery of one of this brand's 2008 vehicles, they will most likely waive any and all dispositive fees, as they have in the past, but it's still wrong and it's still fraudulent. Is it on purpose or accidental? I don't know, but I wonder, of all the on-board computers, how many are off by 7%? Would a 7% margin of error be tolerable in, for example, the fuel injection and valve timing computers? Is it tolerable at all in a computer that determines how much more money can be made off a car lease?

If you have a GPS in your car or know of a track with an exact mile marked off, and can test this hunch, please contact me with your findings. Include your name, email address, methodology used, and make, model, and year of your car. I'd like to hear from auto people, too. Whether you sell, auction, service, rehab, build, or test them, I'm interested in your knowledge in this matter. If you're black and notice this same odometer problem on your car, I'd really like to hear from you, because then we can get some real traction going with the whole racism angle.

I'll continue looking further into this scandal whether Corporate America likes it or not.

April 09, 2007

Happy Easter! It's almost done, but, ya know what? I'm gonna extend the festivities into Monday because I feel like it, and I can. My ancestors started this holiday by being accused of killing Christ, so if I want to extend it one more day, I can. I like Easter because it lets all the Jews off the hook. Several thousand years later the Christian religion is still thriving. Jesus was resurrected, so it turned out good. We can all look back at that crucifixion and laugh now. What was everybody getting so worked up about?

I enjoyed a nice round of Easter golf with my specially painted Easter Balls. Have a look.

If you'd like one, take a walk in the woods at Eagle Watch in Towne Lake when you get a chance. They're all there.

That camera phone takes a whale of a flattering shot. If it weren't for this sudden global warming skein we've been having here in the south, I'd look more golfy, I assure you.

I enjoyed watching the Masters this year mainly because no one looked happy most of the time. It made the pros look more like me. I particularly enjoyed watching Tiger break his 5 iron against a tree, something that I enjoy doing and do well myself. I'm trying to raise my game a bit and I'm working on uprooting a bush with my driver. It's not as easy as it sounds, given the complex root system.

Another update on finding Kosher for Passover Coke: In response to my postings of last week, I received calls and messages from several mid-level Coke and Publix people who had gone to the trouble of obtaining the precious beverage.

Here I am, enjoying a 2-liter bottle of it at my home this evening.

As I suspected, it has the crisper, bubblier flavor of yesteryear, instead of the flatter, vegetable noted flavors of today's HFCS Coke. But boy am I cramping from 2 liters of gas-filled sugar water. Haven't done that since I was 23.

If Coke was smart they would bring back Coke with sugar as a niche brand since demand is so high. They could call it Nu Nu Coke, for the hip and semi-literate text messaging crowd, and do commercials with John Sununu. Or Coke 3, Coke Shoulda, Ye Olde Coke, Coke Before It Got Screwed Up, Coke This Is The Flavor of the Government Not Subsidizing Domestic Sugar Growers.

Enough about soda already. The vernal holidays of rebirth and redemption have passed and it's time to get on with the new year already and get down to business. In case you are interested in listening to radio on the internet at night, catch the stream all next week (4/16-4/20, dude), Monday-Friday from 9pm-midmight, as the House of Wachs returns to NY and 92.3 FREE FM. Watch your mouth, Imus! I think I'm being groomed.

March 28, 2007

Even I'm telling people, I Can't Believe It's Only March! And I'm not usually one for such inane small talk.

The Enemies of Wachs will be happy to know that I have been quite miserable lately. Today was probably the worst day yet, and no signs of bottoming out.

So there I was last week, on Memorial Drive. It's 91, and the natives are already restless and angry here at the DeKalb Traffic Court, but I still am convinced global warming is a good thing. Life is adaptation.

Your favorite petty criminal, me, was nailed doing 89 in a 55 a few months ago on 85. I'm sorry, is that too many numbers? I was going fast. Safe, because I'm a great driver, of course, but fast.

89 over the 55. Only 34 over the limit, just 1 under Governor Sonny's proposed "Super Speeder" category, so no trophy for me. And I was actually doing 94 as I recall, in one stretch of that soon-to-be criminalized journey. Must have been going up a hill at the speed gun.

I did not know this, but sometimes enterprising traffic court judges run what they call "courtroom specials." Today, the judge made note of all the speedy customers in his courtroom, and decided it was time for the wheels of justice to at least achieve the minimum speed.

"If you wanna skip your trial, just pay a fine, and have it changed to a non-moving violation, step forward, tell me your name, and go see the cashier downstairs."

But, speed kills, your honor!

"If you'd like to stay and get some points or go to jail, you are welcome to do so."

Bye!

I've never seen so many people move so quickly to throw cash at the government. We all piled into the narrow stairwell to the cramped cashier's lobby downstairs, where makeshift security equipment is crammed into the foyer, no more than 10 yards from the cashier window. Very little security advantage as I see it. A dude with a decent shot could rob that place from the front door, it's so close.

Well, anyway it is still a great deal this judge had going. Even for me in my "Up and Coming Super Speeder" category, it's worth it. No points!

I called my wife.

"Hi! I got fined $295, stood in line in 90 degree heat for an hour with overweight, impatient 3rd worlders, and sneezed my head off. But good news! I saved 15% on our car insurance.

She wasn't thrilled, but women rarely see the long view of finance.

I aborted my 3.5 mile walk/run today, so, I guess I am pro-choice after all. I passed a car down the street that has been parked for 4 days and someone with really neat handwriting had written"pollen" in the pollen parked on the hood. Today, the letters are nearly filled in so you would have to look carefully to see the word "pollen" on the car. The fates were sending me messages in the spores, but I kept going, which was a huge mistake. The bubble boy and those photo-electric kids, who explode if exposed to sunlight, have it easier going outside. Sangina Malinkar feels more virile. So I shut it down after just 2 miles.

The big problem with allergies, besides the anti-social fluids running down one's face, and smelling like egg salad, is that the only sure cure is temporary dehydration. Even with a good antihistamine, the sufferer is too dehydrated to run well, and then more pollen gets all inside everything with a hole in it as exercise continues, sucking more moisture from the victim. Then comes the loginess as if one was running through a field of poppies, and...can't...go on.

Claritin is no match for these days of the Chartreuse Menace. I take three at a time because the recommended OTC dose may do wonders for the drug companies' legal fees, but it doesn't stop my allergies for more than 2 hours indoors, 8 minutes outside.

Now that I have a lot of freer time, I long for the days when allergy pills were big and beefy and they knocked you down like a taser and put you to sleep for 16+ hours. I remember being dragged to dog owner's houses by my parents when I was a kid for Passover Seder. They tanked me up on in the car on anti-histamines...70s-style anti-histamines...and I would fall face first into the bitter herbs before I could utter another word of the 3rd question.

Now they have pills for adults that once were the realm of mere children. They dry you out and keep you wide awake to enjoy the parchiness of it all. We are forced to sacrifice health and happiness all in the service of preventing a few White Trashians, and Hillbilly-Americans from getting meth mouth and giving BJs on Craigslist. I've taken the initiative in finding alternatives for all of you sufferers out there who need a knight in yellow armor. My research indicates that the cannabis plant is a terrific anti-histamine. Not only that, it's legal when used for medical purposes such as this.* Plus....just pennies a serving.

Thinking quickly before the total apathy that accompanies a rough sneezing jag kicked in, I captured the aftermath of today's aborted jog around MILFville for your listening pleasure, recorded live in my restroom. That's a shower droning in the background. Sorry.

January 30, 2007

Where boredom meets practicality, that's where you'll find me these days. Yessiree. I even called George Stein and asked him if I could go to court with him for some municipal entertainment, watching slobs worse off than me tell their stupid stories to exhausted and bemused judges.

I felt bad about aborting the "Whiskers of Fate" Project. I thought it was of low moral character of me to shave my promised beard just because I was a little uncomfortable, callously not thinking of the people out there who want to be entertained for free.

"Hey man, art should be a little uncomfortable to be good art," I thought to myself. "Now, pick your nose....OK."

I have the stitches from my neck surgery...

(good news...skin cancer free!)

...and I want to shave but I am scared to open the hole in my neck with my Gillette Good News razor bringing blood and tragic irony upon myself. So here's the Solomonic wisdom I've come up with on thisissue.

I've shaved half of my face. Isn't that crazy?

I was just grabbing a snack and chatting with the family for about 20 minutes and they didn't notice, so this outghta work until I get the stitches out on Thursday.

I was enjoying some Trader Joe's Blueberry Soda during snack. I don't have to tell you how refreshing and enjoyable a glass of blueberry soda can be. So my question is...why is it so rare? How come I have to go to some exotic, esoteric food store to get it? I just don't get how, as a culture, we outright reject certain fruits for certain food projects? How come it took so long for America to embrace the exciting pomegranate? Now everyone has that flavor in their arsenal, but what was the delay? I'm mystified.

Has the Lord imbued only the people in a sparsely populated enclave in the Finger Lakes of NY with the knowledge of Grape Pie? Most people look at me as if I've asked them to eat turd jerky. Hey, United States. It's grapes, it's flaky crust, it's warm. Make it. Eat it! Trust me. Damn.

After "snack," as we like to call it here at the Wachs Estate Vineyards, I did some research and I'm now America's 4th most googled guy on FM radio behind Stern, Limbaugh, and the KDND morning crew.

Don't get me wrong. I see the good in Google. From it's subliminal first three letters (Calling it "Goodle" would've been less catchy and so treacly), to it's uncanny ability to allow anyone to earn a living by playing Team Trivia in bars with the help of a concealed transmitter and laptop. But this damn Google has some downsides to it, and you should know about them.

This damn Google seems to have a beta test engine going on called "Google People With an Axe to Grind Against Wachs." I've been making swift and exciting progress on the job front for the most part, but I'm having trouble on closing the deals because some of these hirers always seem to find the people who you fucked with, or weren't sensitive enough to, and you haven't seen for 15-20 years. Twenty years ago! Sweet Martha's Scrotum! I was just a young laddie. I wasn't married, I wasn't yet a father, I wasn't an investor, I didn't own a home. Didn't raise chickens on a windswept Kansas farm. Hadn't seen the WIZARD!

I was a guy who got to do what several million American youthful males wanted to do: get paid to talk on the radio and get girls on the phone. I was a big hotshot. And then when D student Wachs made more money than my brother, the Harvard Doctor Wachs, well then. Who's got the best penis now?

Anyway, my point is that people change a whole bunch as they age. Even Manson is less extreme these days what with his latest crusade to insure that the pigs, when they are murdered, have the right to a clean knife in their throat.

But this damn Google brings the past back to the present a lot easier. Now, you don't have to buy boots, gloves, or bus tickets.

It's not life or death, but it does take several weeks to untie all the mixups that ensue when people still think you're 25, and it's a big pain in the ass, with lonely nights on the road, diddling in the hotel hot tub before turning in to watch some Kimmel and giving out a sigh before getting some shuteye for the big interview. So, what I'm trying to tell all you people out there......hold on...out of breath. Be careful what you do, kids. The mischief train broke down 'bout three miles down the road...and...and...can I get some water?

So I'd like to apologize now to the following people (and they know who they are) who I must have done something to but they can't just move on about it:

Sorry to the GM whom I called a rookie and questioned whether he really knew what he was talking about. Turned out he did. Edge: GM

Sorry to Kato Kaelin for being mean to him and pranking his show when he was on before me. Turns out he was just scared OJ would kill him next. Edge: Kato

Sorry to the GM who I called a suicide hotline about. Turns out he's still rich. Edge: GM

Sorry to Jimmy Baron for calling him gay all the time. Turns out he's getting residuals for his appearance in Endless Love. Edge: Baron

Sorry to Southside Steven for calling his mom a dried up old lady. Turns out he's on the air slinging that "Yeah C'mon," and his mom is not dried up. Edge: Rickman

Sorry to Jimmy Kimmel for Eric calling his kid meanspirited things on the air. Turns out Jimmy's on national TV and I'm not even on radio. Edge: Kimmel

Sorry to Howard Stern for baiting him in an argument in which he looked very bad. Turns out Howard got paid a lot more than I did and has a supermodel bikini girlfriend. Edge: Stern

Sorry to the producer I fired because he didn't pick up the check during a dinner meeting. Well, turns out that was a good move. Edge: Wachs

December 06, 2006

I feel sorry for you people. I've had to drive in morning rush hour a couple of times in the past two weeks, and I'm going to predict that without anything humorous to listen to on the radio at this time of day, drunken driving will increase.

This is what it's come down to in market #9 (note mention of Yours Jewly)

....holy...just...wow.

I had to go to Mall of Georgico up in Suwanee today to pick up a gift for my wife's friend.

Wait. That doesn't sound right.

OK, I'm not having sexytime with my wife's friend. Not that she isn't attractive.

My wife is buying her friend the gift, but I am the errand boy because it's for her Secret Santa party where they reveal who gave what to whom later and then they do lesbian stuff on the floor, I guess.

Anyway, after being ignored by the powdered ladies at Nordstrom for about 10 minutes, probably due to the fact that my bald head and warmup jacket make me look like a registered sex offender, one Angela Lansbury at the counter was bored enough to investigate why a registered sex offender would be eyeing perfume.

"May I assist you?" Help is no longer available. We get assistance. Help is for people who are drowning or have a dreaded disease. Nordstrom customers are not victims. We assist them. Why, my goodness, if it weren't for state and local labor regulations, we'd all just as soon go home and let our customers run the store themselves and pay on the honor system. They're that good. So we assist them. Even with language.

"Hi. What's the cheapest Chanel you have?"

"What is the least expensive Chanel we have?"

Oh, yeah. It's on! Restate my question with a correction and hand it back, will ya? Well, I hope you have a receipt with that return, Snobby, because I ain't takin' it back.

It's not like when they give that passive-aggressive, "Will Pepsi be OK?" thing at the restaurant when you erroneously ask for Coke. There's a canyon of difference between being contractually bound to uphold a brand's integrity and the Aerosol Queen scolding me for my use of the wrong adjective in her regal opinion.

"Uh...yeah, well. I'm sorry if I offended the bottles." And then I walked out. But then I remembered that my wife gave me a $50 Nordstrom's gift card to make the purchase, so it was free here and nowhere else.

"So listen...I've been thinking over my purchase and I'd like to see your least expensive bottle of piss water."

A buddy of mine has a hot button issue with Costco. He always makes a point to berate the person who checks his receipt on the way out, despite the fact that they clearly do this to everyone. His point being that, after he pays his money, those items are his, and no motherfucker has a right to stop him and search his property. I try to explain to him that since he's still on store property, and the items are in the store's buggy, the motherfuckers do reserve the right to use reasonable loss-prevention procedures, but he's sort of like those principled hold-outs who only recognize Confederate money, or passionately cling to the erroneous belief that filing an income tax return is optional even after they've been convicted and hung.

The other day he went to Costco and became enraged when the guy just absently marked his sizable receipt with a quick slash of a highlighter pen and sent him on his consumer way.

"Hold on, motherfucker," he says. "I didn't wait in this line for 10 minutes with MY STUFF THAT I NOW OWN just so you could move me along. Now check every item in my cart, motherfucker. Check it."

The result of this move, of course, is that no one benefited. And the move, I fear, is a result of too much Borat.

Borat's contemporary in blurring the line between real and fiction, Michael Richards, keeps squirming in his quicksand and hampering his exit from it. If he had only used the word "macaca" instead. Right now he'd be just a former senator from Virginia instead of a chew toy in the Sharpton collection.

Meanwhile, angling to get a slot on Judge Judy or even Mo'Nique!, Ms. Cynthia Covington of Fulton County, right here in Georgia, kept up the tradition thought lost when Bobby Brown and Whitney Houston sold their home, and polished her dispute resolution skills by pouring gasoline on the genitals of her sleeping boyfriend before setting them ablaze.

Anyone find this on YouTube yet? I did a search of "burning genitals" and all I got was a bunch of Mike Vick videos. Ah, well. Last I checked, this act is not illegal in GA as long as you're getting someone back for hurting your feelings. My condolences to her boyfriend, John Wayne Stopdropandroll, but there's nothing anyone can do seeing as how they don't have a donor program for "those organs." And why not? It's not like it's gay or anything. Oh, wait. It is. Never mind.

November 28, 2006

Still cleaning the Thanksgiving detritus from my luggage and intestines, so here's a short film from last week's Wachs Thanksgiving 2006, filmed and edited by my daughter and short filmmaker, Alison and shot entirely on location at the home of Old Man Pickle Nose, and my mom, Mee Maw Luvya, both of whom have a cameo role.

Peteetong! Pictures presents...

TOOTH: THE MOVIE.
It's the story of my sister's kids fighting with each other and one knocking the other's tooth out. Great times.

-------------------

Email from Mr. Patrick Thomas of Georgia:

Larry:

You mentioned that your folks have weak toilets, tell them to
replace them with American Standard Champion toilets! Why you
ask? Because I used to launch crap the size of a beer can and would
forever have to cut it up before I flushed or suffer the constant,
"For God's sake Patrick, do you need the plunger again"
question. That all changed when I finally changed out one of the
toilets to the "Champion" toilet. Now I never have to use a hanger
to cut anything before I flush. Works every time. Pass it on.

Patrick

I will, Patrick. I certainly will.

Mom? Dad? If you're reading this, I want to pass on some information I just got from my pal, Patrick. He sent me an email, and guess what? He has an anus the size of a beer can! Isn't that wonderful? And he enjoys slicing his doody with a hanger. Neato. Love ya!!!

November 19, 2006

Since September, when I bought two Tickle Me Elmos to cash in on Ebay holiday mania, I've been looking for headlines that told of violence in retail outlets as a bellwether of the Christmas black market. Good news is there were about 5 reports this weekend.

Some mental plegic in Milwaukee got his face smashed into a pole as a horde of toy scalpers rushed the doors of a local Target.

In Tyson's Corner, VA, police pepper-sprayed Circuit City customers who got unruly. Not to criticize the cops, but I think it's more appropriate to taser unruly Circuit Citizens.

Then in Kentucky, a rapist was caught in line at a Target there. Idiot. Everyone knows Xbox has all the good rape games.

The bad news in all this is, for me, that none of these incidents were incited by Elmo. It's all the PS3 idiots. I missed the market. What a horrible year I'm having. As of this writing, PS3s are averaging $1150 on Ebay, and TMX is topping out at around $80. My profit margin on TMX, if a gullible wind blows my way, is going to be about 1%. PS3, had I pitched a tent, would have yielded 110%. Niiiiice. At least I can say I gave 110%....up.

I'll wait another week to put up my Tickle Me Elmo auctions. That'll give me time to go out and start a fight at a Walgreen's next Friday in the name of Elmo. Start generating some profit-making headlines. I miss my new friends at the jail.

From what I can gather no one actually plays with the PS3. They just use them for this nationwide ponzi scheme until someone is left holding the bag on December 25th, and that poor schmuck really has no choice but to use the thing. Doesn't matter how many rapists they catch in line, someone always gets it in the end.

Another skill I wish I had. I could make a lot of money or meet wealthy chicks if I could do this.

October 15, 2006

I went to the Cumming Fair recently hoping to get a glimpse of Bo Bice, but he didn't show up because he was ill. I'm not sure if the Cumming Fair is a fair or a carnival. Generally speaking, a carnival is a fair with a lot of carnies, and a fair is a carnival with a lot of fairies, but without access to police and medical records, I will have to default to the judgement of the Cumming fathers who named it a fair. I think that's fair.

I'm a little anxious because I signed up for the raffle put on by the Sons of the Confederates for a beautiful Winchester rifle. The drawing is at 6pm Sunday, and if I win, I will sell it for cash. If I don't win, they have my phone number. What was I thinking?

I'm not against the Sons of the Confederates and their heritage, but I don't go around dressed like my grandfather or Thomas Jefferson to express my opinion. It's a bit much. That war is done. Blacks having jobs and families and rights is not a fad. Let it go.

The Cumming Fairgrounds also has a new ski lift apparatus to take fairgoers across the grounds with a bird's eye view of the rabble below and the majesty of Forsyth County and it's watertower. It also goes right over the cage containing 3 tigers and periodically stops to let some fatty slide off without incurring a lawsuit.

My favorite exhibit is the Give the Monkey a Quarter for No Reason Booth. A guy has a monkey in a gay outfit that he drags around by the neck. I think that's cruel. Not the neck, the gay outfit. Why do we allow owners to dress animals in humiliating clothing? Why can't monkeys wear a t-shirt and jeans? The turquoise vest, sombero and chaps combo implies that the monkey has a sartorial sophistication that runs counter to his place on the food chain.

The sign behind him says:

"Give the monkey 25 cents.""The monkey will not accept pennies, nickel, OR dimes."

I gave the monkey a penny. It grabbed the penny. I braced myself to be thrown out of the fair, or worse, have my throat torn open by a greedy monkey. Nothing happened. It put the penny in it's gay vest pocket and went to the next moron who gave him a Susan B. Anthony dollar in hopes of currying favor with the monkey.

Later, I observed the owner transferring the monkey's change to his own pocket. I wish I could be there at the end of the evening.

"You styoopid monkey...(slap slap). I tell you many time. ONLY QUARTERS!!! And what is this lesbian quarter? It is fake!!!" Then he flings the monkey across the room and locks the door, taking his food.

The local beekeeper sold me a jar of honey on the premise that the use of local wildflowers in the honey would help me get over my allergies when the local pollens are in the air. Sounds plausible, if you forget you're getting medical advice at a carnival and the funnel cake guy, 5 minutes before, claimed his product would result in a healthier prostate.

"The sting of these bees also help if you have arthritis," he claimed further.

Cancer? AIDS?

"I don't know about that. Mebbe some of them downtown Atlanta bees, but not mine."

August 13, 2006

Tonight, my family and I actually went out of our way while going home to get to a Wendy's for a Vanilla Frosty, or Frostie, or Frostee, or Frostye, or whatever marketing illiteracy they use. I'm still reeling from the stupidity of it all. I've probably tasted vanilla every single day since I was old enough to form flavor memories, yet there I was, driving out of my way for vanilla dairy ice, because it was new to Wendy's. Yes, that's correct. Wendy's and vanilla have never crossed paths until this day. The Frostyiee you grew up with has always been a chocolate only affair.

My wife worked at a Wendy's in 1981, and even then, every 3rd customer at the drive-thru would make the assumption and ask for a Vanilla Frostyieeiye, so until now, the Wendy's Vanilla Frosteeeyiieiyye has been the reverse Abe Vigoda of dessert treats. Dave Thomas must have had a prohibition against vanilla when he was alive due to some unfortunate encounter with a vanilla pod or irrational hatred of Madagascar and it's people. It might be wise to exhume his body for evidence of foul play by an eager Wendy's executive with plans to make VP by introducing vanilla to Wendy's customers, yet frustrated at every turn by a terrified Dave Thomas.

Still, it took about 5 years after his death for Wendy's to bring vanilla to the public. Dave must have faked his death so many times over the years to see what his board of directors would say at his bogus funeral, that such caution was not unwarranted. Still....

Then it gets even better. The Wendy's we visited was out of vanilla! SOLD OUT! of vanilla! Well, you coulda put a finger in my chili. The most ubiquitous flavor on the planet, which finally reached the 'Japanese WW2 vet hiding in a cave' of the fast food world, the Frostyiiyiyeeoo, was now gone again! I could have spit in any direction at that moment, and hit a place selling vanilla ice cream, but this Wendy's, with all it's signs touting this new flavor breakthrough, was barren of it.

What is it about the marriage of Wendy's and vanilla that excites the public so, as if it were indoor plumbing in Alabama? What is the name of that phenomenon? The Tipping Point? The Bell Curve? Pent-up Demand? Maybe it's called "The Cheating Spouse."

Woman comes home to find her husband--let's call him Bill--in bed with another woman.

"Why, Bill? I give you sex whenever you please!"

"Yes, but I've never had HER sex."

We were all cheating on our other sources of vanilla that night. I'm sending a $4 million dollar ring and a case of roses to McDonald's come morning.

We then drove to a second Wendy's filled with the local teens celebrating a big night of searching for their identities and finally received our Wendy's **NEW** Vanilla Frostyeeayeeeayeoooo.

April 29, 2006

The less I read the paper or watch TV news, the calmer I am. TV news teaches us to panic. We've had a gas price spike every 6 months or so for the last 6 years, and everytime, we get the culture of panic egging us on to turn against common sense.

The caption reads: Marcus Andrews of Fairburn pumps gas at the Race Trac in Fairburn on Friday. Andrews drives to the College Park MARTA station to travel to Atlanta for work.

And just who is to blame for this egregious display of coping and personal responsibility? Bush, Exxon, War, Bush, Chevron, government, Cheney, Manny, Moe, Jack?
How about ole Marcus himself? If we're going to hand out blame for our collective inability to come to grips with the reality of gas prices, how about at least start with the guy who wears a Michael Vick outfit to work? How much does that pay?

April 27, 2006

While my attorneys have advised against posting this photo seeing as how the child looks a lot like me, I'm so confident the DNA evidence will exonerate that I'm posting this snapshot for all you fans of cute baby wearing creepy T-shirt pictures.

This was sent in from RG Nation listener, Kristi, of her new son, Luke, and his baby-sized RG onesie, now on sell at the RG.com store. Just in time for your prom!

April 22, 2006

If you want to see what's happening in America these days, there's no better snapshot than a supermarket. All of your neighbor's habits and dramas are revealed. After this simple primer you will become so good at insinuating what a person's innermost secrets are, that I will be forced to buy a smoked plexiglass grocery buggy to use at the store. I always make it a point to peek into the buggies that pass. Those aren't just grocery items in there. Those are clues. See the eye drops and Twix? Drug addict. See the low carb yogurt and Triscuits? Slut. Who's gettin' it on? Pretend to be earnestly comparing sunscreens, but all the while keeping an eye on the condom aisle. If they go over to frozen foods and the bags of salad afterward..Ka-ching! Horny and divorced.

Check out the bench in front of the prescriptions booth. Relatively healthy people, such as myself, who occasionally swindle a lawyer-shy doctor into overprescribing pain meds and cough syrup for a runny nose, kill the prescription wait time by bouncing giddily about the store to purchase a good beer and pizza to go with the drugs. It's the real sickos that stick by the bench, morosely pondering where it all went wrong, in no mood for samples of Nestle's new Injectable Cookie Dough. I feel bad for them, and it's times like these that I wish I were magical and could heal them with a touch of a finger in exchange for some free landscaping or debt relief. That would be great.

Witness first hand the minimum wage forcing employers to hire more and more deeply inconsistent workers. Deli lady, what good are plastic food handling gloves if you yawn into and handle money with them?
Do you think it's to protect your nails?

We are also an alarmingly infantilized bunch. Our life expectency should bust through 80 soon, despite the best efforts of terrorists and trans-fats, yet our collective emotional growth is still stuck at about 20 and declining.

I've always thought breeding is way too easy as it stands without a volume of this sort right next to the book of Secrets of the Pillsbury Bake-Off. People who are incapable of doing anything else engage in breeding with a stunning casualness. We need fewer Reproducing for Retards instruction manuals and more breeding laws. If people were catching on fire this easily, don't you think laws would be passed?

Is there no topic too sacred for the Dummies? Apparently, Iran has gotten a hold of "Enriching Uranium for Dummies." Good idea. Maybe the bomb they send over will spawn more great works of literature in the future like "Pregnancy for Two-Headed, 13-Fingered, Prehensile-Tailed Dummies."

Tinker with that 1st amendment while you're under the hood. God help us all. I'll be over at the prescription bench, praying with the other relief seekers.